


The Girl at the Inn

by Girl_in_Red_Crossing



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Light Angst, M/M, happyish ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-18
Updated: 2020-08-18
Packaged: 2021-03-05 18:52:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25980130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Girl_in_Red_Crossing/pseuds/Girl_in_Red_Crossing
Summary: Two weeks after finding Geralt, Ciri meets Jaskier.
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 65
Kudos: 1030





	The Girl at the Inn

Ciri’s lip tasted of copper as she nibbled it, and she forced herself to stop before Geralt could chide her about it. He always seemed to know when she forgot herself and fell into the old habit, even when his back was to her, even when it was the darkest part of the night. She’d never been able to hide it from her grandmother either, and she’d endured endless scoldings on the subject. Except they hadn’t been endless, had they? In that moment, she would have paid any amount of coin for one more good scolding.

She squeezed her eyes closed and willed back any tears before they could properly form. Geralt could always tell when she’d been crying as well. When she opened her eyes again, he was looking up at her from where he limped alongside Roach. Damn.

“All right?” he asked.

She straightened her back. “I am. You’re not.”

He sighed, but at least he turned forward again. “I’m fine.”

“You said your leg would be better in a week. It’s been two, and it’s getting worse.” When he didn’t answer, she huffed. “You could at least let me walk so you can ride.”

He still didn’t respond, so she crossed her eyes and stuck out her tongue at the back of his head. She was too tired and sad and anxious to care about not being childish. She’d thought all of her problems would end once she had found Geralt, that she could hand all the worry and stress of staying safe to someone better prepared for it. And she was safe with him, she knew that. He planned every day’s travel toward Kaer Morhen with exacting caution _because_ he was determined to keep her safe. But he seemed to have no intention of taking care of himself, and he didn’t seem to consider what would happen to _her_ if something happened to _him_ or how she would feel to lose one more person, maybe the last person who would care for her.

The rain continued to fall, not enough for a downpour but steady and continuous enough to plaster cloth and hair against clammy skin. She huddled deeper into the rough woolen cloak Geralt had bought her; her fine blue one was tucked away in Roach’s saddlebags, far too fine for a rural girl traveling the countryside. She was sure the rain was the reason behind Geralt’s more pronounced limp. They’d had no fire the night before, and she had felt him shiver in his bedroll beside hers. She watched his shoulders rise and his chin duck into his collar as the wind picked up again. The smell of woodsmoke rode along it like a leaf in a fast current.

“Do you smell that?” she asked.

“Hmm,” Geralt acknowledged. “There’s a village nearby.”

“We should stop.”

“We should keep moving.” 

He didn’t even glance her way as he said it. She was going to make a list one day and call it “Geralt’s Favorite Phrases.” It would start with _I’m fine_ and _We should keep moving_.

“You told me I should tell you if you pushed too hard,” she reminded him. “Well, I’m telling you.”

A weary-sounding breath left him as he paused in his forced march. When he finally turned to assess her with his golden eyes, she leaned forward and patted Roach’s neck.

“If Roach stays this wet, she’ll get hoof thrush.”

His gaze darted to meet Roach’s dark eyes. Ciri had only known him two weeks, and she already knew he was far more solicitous of his horse’s well-being than his own.

“Hood up, eyes down,” he ordered, his usual command when they met people passing on the road.

Ciri nodded eagerly, tugging the fabric framing her face forward. Geralt raised his own hood, and when the road they’d been following reached a crossroads, he turned down the fork marked by a wooden arrow. Time and weather had long since rendered the name of the town illegible, and the ground beneath them only barely avoided becoming a mire. Geralt led Roach to the very edges where the grassy verge had collected at least some of the rain. Even so, she struggled more than once to pull a hoof from the sticky mud, and Geralt didn’t object when Ciri dismounted to ease her burden.

She breathed a sigh of relief when the village came into view. It was little more than an inn that doubled as a tavern, a blacksmith, and an apothecary gathered around a tiny square. A well and public stable occupied the fourth side. A dozen or so houses, small but solid, huddled around the safety of the center while a handful of braver dwellings lurked amid the surrounding woods. Geralt guided Roach to the hitching post outside the inn. Once she was secured, he laid a protective hand on Ciri’s shoulder and steered her toward the door.

The little tavern held a surprising number of people, and the place buzzed with an undercurrent of excitement. Ciri stuck close to Geralt as they approached the counter, but fortunately the innkeeper who bustled toward them, a middle-aged woman with graying hair and kind eyes, was exactly the type of matron who would look at Ciri and see only a poor lost lamb of a girl.

“My daughter and I would like to rent a room if you have one available please,” Geralt said in a low voice.

“Of course,” the innkeeper replied, and she shook her head at the bedraggled sight of them. “You must both be soaked to the bone with the way these storm clouds have lingered.” She reached for a metal box beneath the counter and withdrew a plain iron key. “I’ve only a small room left, but it’s got two dry beds and a fireplace to boot.”

She named a price, and Geralt reached for his purse and counted out the coin without objection, so Ciri assumed the cost was fair. She’d have to learn to pay attention to those kinds of things.

“Thank you,” Geralt said. “We’ll return once we’ve seen to our horse.”

“The girl is welcome to stay here where it’s warm while you do,” the innkeeper offered. 

Ciri shifted just a hair closer to Geralt, and his hand tightened on her shoulder. The innkeeper must have noticed because she bobbed her head in a quick nod. 

“Can’t be too careful with the state of the world these days,” she noted.

Geralt hummed his agreement, and he and Ciri walked back into the unrelenting gray of the outside. They led Roach to the stable, where a boy took their coin for the use of a stall and a bucket of fresh oats. Ciri helped Geralt dry and brush Roach and then waited as patiently as she could while he conducted a very thorough examination of Roach’s legs and hooves. Maybe she shouldn’t have played that card while persuading him to stop.

By the time he was finished, what little light the sky held was fading, and Geralt couldn’t hide a wince as he pushed himself up from his crouch. As they crossed the square back to the inn, Ciri glanced behind them. Three clear trails of footprints marked their passage through the mud; the fourth was marred by streaks where Geralt’s injured leg had dragged.

When they re-entered the inn, Geralt guided Ciri through the crowd to the stairs in the back. The narrow stairway forced them close together, or she likely wouldn’t have heard the fortifying breath Geralt inhaled before starting up the steps. She watched the tight line of his jaw as they ascended; the muscles twitched each time he lifted his hurt leg. He paused for a moment at the top, eyes closed, nostrils flaring as he breathed heavily, and Ciri hovered beside him, not knowing what to say or do, worrying her lip to bleeding again.

A second later, Geralt’s hand shot out. She jumped back, startled, and looked up to where his fingers had grabbed the door that had been flung open and would have hit her if he hadn’t.

“My apologies!” a man’s voice said from inside the room. “I didn’t realize…”

He trailed off, and when Ciri peered around the door, she was surprised to see a colorfully dressed bard holding a lute and staring at Geralt with wide blue eyes. Even more surprising was the way Geralt was staring back. She had never seen him look so startled.

The bard recovered first, blinking and fixing a small smile on his face. “Hello, Geralt. Fancy meeting you here.”

As he looked away, those blue eyes fell on Ciri and widened again.

“Oh, holy hells,” he exclaimed, but after his momentary shock had passed, his smile returned, warmer and more genuine than before. “Well, this is an unexpected pleasure.”

He ducked under Geralt’s still outstretched arm, and Geralt abruptly let go of the door and shuffled back a step, still gazing at the bard as if he’d seen a phantom. Ciri didn’t know what to make of his strange reaction. She wouldn’t have even guessed that he was capable of looking so unsure.

For his part, the bard kept all his attention on Ciri. “May I know your name?” he asked.

Ciri glanced at Geralt, but he gave her no sign of how to answer. “Fiona,” she replied.

“It’s lovely to meet you, Fiona,” the man replied with a small bow. “Jaskier the bard, at your service.”

“I’ve heard of you!” Ciri said. “You wrote ‘The Stars Above the Path’!”

He grinned at her. “So I did. I’ll be performing that one and many others tonight in this very establishment.”

“Can we go down and listen?” she asked Geralt.

Jaskier’s gaze followed hers, and his smile faded. Geralt’s eyes were on the wooden floor, his face an impassive mask yet again. He didn’t respond; she wasn’t sure he had heard her.

“I’m sure you’re both tired from your travels,” Jaskier said before she could repeat her question. “And I have a performance to begin, so I’ll just… take myself off your hands.”

Over his shoulder, Ciri saw the tiniest flinch crease Geralt’s brow. A moment later, it vanished, and he raised his head as Jaskier left them to hurry down the stairs.

“Who was that?” she asked over the cheers that greeted Jaskier’s appearance below.

“He said who he was,” Geralt responded, and he nodded toward the door next to Jaskier’s. “That one’s ours.”

He limped past her to unlock the door and, after leaning in to check the room beyond, gestured for her to enter. The room was just as the innkeeper described it, with a narrow bed along each of the side walls and just enough space for a fireplace and a wooden stool between them. The door opened into one near corner, and a folding screen blocked off the other. Ciri peeked behind it; a wash basin and a pitcher of water stood on a table just wide enough to hold them both. A stack of logs waited in the fireplace. Geralt used one of his Witcher Signs to light them, and Ciri couldn’t suppress a sigh of relief.

“Change out of those wet clothes and we’ll lay them out to dry,” Geralt told her.

She took her pack behind the screen and gratefully wriggled out of her wet blouse and riding skirt. She cast a longing look at the trousers at the bottom of her bag, but she knew wearing them in a small town would likely cause a fuss, so she drew out another simple blouse and her spare skirt. After changing into dry clothes and rinsing away the worst of the mud in the basin, she felt they had already gotten their coins’ worth and then some. Cheerful music rose up from beneath the planks in the floor, and she closed her eyes and basked in a moment of genuine peace.

When she reemerged from behind the screen, she laid her wet clothes before the fire next to the neat stack of Geralt’s armor. He lay on one of the beds, eyes closed, hands clasped across his stomach and with his swords leaned next to him in easy reach. She was about to tell him he could take a turn to change behind the screen when his lips parted on a soft snore. She huffed a little laugh of surprise. She’d never really seen him asleep before. He went to bed after she did at night and always woke before she did in the mornings, and even in the middle of the night, if she so much as opened her eyes, he would murmur a quiet “All right?” Seeing him lax in sleep was like seeing an entirely different person from the alert and wary-eyed guardian who stalked beside her each day.

She watched the slow rise and fall of his chest until she let out a yawn of her own. Being warm and dry for the first time in days seemed to remind her body how little sleep she’d gotten lately, and suddenly Geralt’s idea of a short nap seemed like an excellent idea. She pulled back the blankets on the other bed and snuggled in with a soft sigh. Within moments, she’d dropped off as well.

She wasn’t sure how much time had passed when she woke, but the fire had settled into steady flames instead of crackling heat. Sitting up, she rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands. She stretched and yawned and expected Geralt to wake up with every movement she made. He didn’t, and she frowned a little as she gazed at him. He didn’t sleep so deeply in the woods, and as reluctant as he’d been to stop, she hadn’t expected him to let down his guard so thoroughly. But maybe that just meant she was right to push for a rest. She hoped so, even if niggling worry remained.

Her growling stomach interrupted her musings. With the presence of a friendly innkeeper and a famous bard, she couldn’t imagine she’d be in much danger if she ventured down to the tavern on her own. After a final glance at Geralt, she found a scarf to tie over hair and pulled on her boots, grimacing as the damp soles squelched beneath her feet. Then she snuck out into the hallway and down the stairs.

The tavern buzzed with the sounds of genial conversation, but she didn’t fully register that the music had stopped until she saw Jaskier sitting at the counter with a bowl of stew before him. He looked around at the crowd with a content smile on his face, and it widened when he saw her standing at the base of the stairs.

“Fiona!” Jaskier greeted her, and she moved to join him at the bar. “In need of some supper?” When she nodded, he waved the innkeeper over. “Myrah, can we get another bowl of your marvelous stew for the young lady?”

“Two bowls please,” Ciri piped up.

The innkeeper smiled at her. “Coming right up,” she said and then bustled away.

Ciri slid into the stool beside Jaskier’s and didn’t miss the glance he directed toward the stairs. “Isn’t Geralt coming down?”

She shook her head. “He’s napping.”

His eyebrows lifted to disappear beneath the hair that fell across his forehead. “Everything okay?”

Ciri bit her lip as she traced her finger through a ring of condensation on the counter. He and Geralt clearly knew each other, but she had no idea how well. The strangeness of Geralt’s reaction left her unsure how much she should confide in him. Then again, if he’d been any kind of threat to her, she had no doubt Geralt wouldn’t have let him simply walk away.

Beside her, Jaskier drew in breath to speak, but before he could ask any questions, the innkeeper returned, a bowl of steaming stew in each hand. “Can I get you anything else?” she asked Ciri. “Does your father need anything? I saw the poor man limping.”

“Our horse caught scent of a wolf in the woods,” Ciri lied easily, though she could feel the weight of Jaskier’s gaze on her. “He caught her before she could bolt, but she clipped him with her hoof.”

The innkeeper clucked her tongue in sympathy. “Well, you let me know if he needs a hot bath or a strong ale.”

“I will. Thank you.”

Another customer called for her attention at the other end of the bar, and Jaskier leaned toward Ciri.

“It takes far more than a wolf to spook Roach,” he said in a low voice. “Was he hurt on a hunt?”

She turned to face him. Small creases beside his eyes belied his concern, and her worry about Geralt’s injury warred with her reluctance to admit to a stranger that her protector might be weakened. When she didn’t speak, Jaskier nodded slowly, and she felt sure that he understood her caution. She remembered his surprise at meeting her on the stairs. It could have just been shock at seeing an old acquaintance with a child, but she wondered if maybe he knew the truth of her connection to Geralt.

“Would you tell me when it happened?” Jaskier asked.

She considered before deciding there was little harm in it since she’d already admitted he was limping. “Almost two weeks ago.”

Jaskier frowned. “Has he been taking any potions that you’ve seen?”

“He was, but I think he ran out.”

“Of course he did,” Jaskier sighed. He shook his head, but then he smiled at her. “Well, I’m sure he’s fine.”

“That’s what he always says,” she groused.

After weeks traveling through quiet woods, Jaskier’s bright laugh made her startle on her stool. He patted her shoulder, and for a moment, the touch felt strange as well, but it was like the strangeness from a dream, where something normal twisted into something surreal. In the face of Jaskier’s kind expression, she felt herself waking up again to the world of people and life and living.

“Annoying, isn’t it?” he said. “What’s even more annoying is that he’s usually right.”

Despite her plan to hurry straight back to their room after obtaining supper, Ciri felt reluctant to leave Jaskier’s company. Even though they couldn’t speak openly, just being with someone who knew Geralt, who possibly even knew about her, was a comfort, and she decided a few more minutes couldn’t hurt. She scooped up a spoonful of the stew and blew on it gently before tasting it. The bite of meat was tender, the broth thick and flavorful, and she quickly swallowed that bite and went back for more. 

“How do you know him?” she asked Jaskier between mouthfuls.

“We used to travel together,” he said as he resumed his own meal.

“When? For how long?”

He huffed a soft laugh into his bowl. “Twenty-two years, on and off.”

Ciri couldn’t help the way her eyes widened and her lips parted, and Jaskier offered her a rueful smirk. “I know. It sounds like an unbelievable stretch of time. Especially at your age, I imagine.”

“When did you stop?”

He waved his spoon in a vague gesture. “Last year sometime.”

“ _Why_ did you stop?” Ciri pressed.

He chewed another mouthful of his stew instead of answering, and as he stared at the far wall, his air of genial openness seemed to slip into something more somber. An apology came to rest on her tongue, but then Jaskier shook himself and turned to her with a shrug and another smile.

“Sometimes paths diverge, even after being entwined for so long.”

Despite her curiosity, she knew polite avoidance when she heard it, and she’d been too well-trained in courtly manners to press the issue further. She ate another spoonful of stew and watched from the corner of her eye as Jaskier scraped the bottom of his bowl and ate his last bite. He rapped his knuckles on the bar as he stood from his stool. 

“As much as I would absolutely love to keep you company while you eat, I’m afraid I’m obliged to play another set tonight,” he told her as he lifted the lute case that had been tucked at his feet. “And you should get back upstairs before Geralt discovers you gone and works himself into a frenzy.”

Disappointment pricked at Ciri, but she nodded reluctantly and rose as well. As she gathered up the bowls of stew, Jaskier touched her shoulder again, and she looked up into his earnest blue eyes.

“I’ll be right down here if you need me,” he told her.

A wave of warmth washed through her chest. She was so grateful to have found Geralt, but having just one person to depend on felt strange and tenuous. Every other tie in her life had snapped in a moment, and it scared her that one man, no matter how strong he might be, was all that stood between her and a return to being utterly, terribly alone once more.

She nodded again, unable to express her gratitude in words, but from his gentle smile, she thought Jaskier understood that too. He squeezed her shoulder before twirling away and bounding toward the center of the tavern floor to a chorus of cheers.

Carefully balancing a bowl in each hand, Ciri climbed back up to their room, and she smiled when the music started up again. She pushed the door open with her hip, and as she stepped inside, Geralt jolted upright, reaching for his swords.

“It’s just me,” she told him, kicking the door shut behind her. “I went down for some food.”

Geralt wiped a hand down his face and scowled as she handed him a bowl. “Don’t leave the room without me.”

She huffed as she dropped onto her bed cradling her stew. “The innkeeper wouldn’t let anything happen to me. Besides, Jaskier was down there.”

She watched him for any reaction to hearing about Jaskier, but he just spooned stew into his mouth with mechanical inattention. She took a few more bites of her own food before trying again.

“He said you traveled together.”

Geralt only hummed his agreement.

“For _twenty-two years_.”

Golden eyes flicked up to her; if any emotion lingered there, she couldn't see it. “What of it?”

“You didn’t even say hello!” Ciri noted, waving her spoon. “How do you travel with someone for that long and not even acknowledge them when you see them again?”

Geralt’s lips pressed thin, and he looked toward the fire. Ciri hunched over her bowl of stew, realizing too late that she’d crossed a line into familiarity that they didn’t yet share. As she continued eating, she thought that was likely the end of it.

“We didn’t part well.”

She whipped her head up to look at Geralt when he spoke, but he kept his gaze on the flames.

Her curiosity wrestled with the caution of treading new ground. “Why did you part at all?” she finally ventured.

Still as he was, he might have been carved from marble if not for the rise of his chest with an inhale. “I told him to leave.”

Ciri felt her brow furrow. “Why?”

When he turned back to her, when she could see the weariness in his face, in his eyes, he didn’t resemble a statue at all. 

“Eat your food” was his only reply.

The air in the room hung heavy with a regret that Ciri didn’t understand and felt unable to lift. Jaskier’s music played on as they ate, making the bard’s presence even more palpable. After Geralt emptied his bowl, he set it on the stool beside the fire and lay down on the bed again, an arm pressed over his eyes.

“Are you all right?” Ciri asked.

“I’m fine.”

She should have expected his typical noncommittal answer, but she felt a little disappointed anyway. She finished the last of her stew before standing and going to collect Geralt’s bowl. “I’ll take these back downstairs.”

Geralt lifted his arm to frown at her. “Leave them. Stay up here.”

With a sigh, she settled her bowl on top of his. “Can I at least listen to Jaskier? I don’t want to sleep yet. I promise I’ll stay on the top step.”

He appraised her with intent eyes that she tried to meet with equal equanimity. She didn’t want to feel intimidated by her own guardian. 

“Top step,” he warned her. “No lower. And leave the door open.”

She nodded and hurried out of the room before he could change his mind. As she settled herself on the top stair, she took a deep breath and savored the rare moment of solitude. Geralt certainly wasn’t a demanding conversationalist, but he was stern and serious, and traveling with him was so new. She didn’t always know how she was supposed to speak to him, how she was supposed to act around him. She suspected he felt the same. She needed this break, just an hour or two to sit and listen to Jaskier play and try to forget everything that had happened and was still happening, just for a little while.

He played several songs she had heard from other bards in Cintra, but he played and sang them better; all the pauses and flourishes sounded natural instead of forced. She realized they were probably his songs, and all she had ever heard were imitations of his performances. Why had he never come to her grandmother’s court? She hummed along to a few more songs she knew until Jaskier played a simple melody that she didn’t recognize.

The crowd in the tavern did. Just a few notes prompted loud cheers and stomping of feet. When the lyrics began, so many people sang along that she couldn’t understand them until they reached the chorus.

_Toss a coin to your Witcher, oh valley of plenty, oh valley of plenty!_

They were singing about Witchers. They were singing about _Geralt_.

That certainly explained why he’d never been to Cintra. She had asked Geralt why her grandmother had never mentioned him before the horrible night when everything fell apart. He had said only that Calanthe had been displeased when he declared the Law of Surprise, which she assumed was a polite way of saying the Lioness had been furious. A part of her couldn’t help but wish she had known, couldn’t help but wonder if things would have been different if she had, but in a strange way, the omission also made her feel loved. Her grandmother had _wanted_ her. She had wanted Ciri badly enough to try to defy Destiny itself.

Jaskier segued smoothly from the song about tossing a coin to another that told the tale of Geralt’s fight with a vampire. Ciri listened intently, chin in her hands, trying to absorb as much knowledge as she could about the man who had claimed her so long ago. The Witcher in the songs was bold, strong, heroic. The White Wolf helped anyone in need and saved them from danger again and again. She knew it couldn’t all be true, but the tales lit a spark of hope within her. If Geralt had done even half of what Jaskier described, maybe her story could have a happy ending too.

As the night wore on, Jaskier turned from songs of dashing deeds to softer, quieter ballads. Without curiosity about Geralt to draw Ciri’s attention, the sleepless nights of travel began to catch up despite the nap she’d taken earlier. When she dozed off, cheek on her palm, the front door of the inn slamming jerked her awake. She rose from the step and crept back to their room, easing the door closed behind her. Geralt hadn’t moved. She gazed at him for a long moment, trying to see if he looked pale, if she truly saw a sheen of sweat on his skin or if it was just the firelight. She couldn’t decide one way or the other. In the end, she reminded herself that he was an adult, he had said he was fine, and Jaskier had said he was probably right. She stripped down to her shift, climbed into her bed, and fell asleep almost immediately, trusting that their experience knew more than her instincts.

She regretted that trust a few hours later when she woke to Geralt muttering. Rubbing at her eyes, she focused on him, and no question remained: he had gone chalky white, and the sheen of sweat on his brow had become beads clinging to his temples. She jolted out of bed and shook his shoulder. He didn’t respond with anything more than a single slurred word, and she bent closer, brushing her hair over her shoulder so it wouldn’t fall in his face.

“What is it, Geralt? What do you need?” She swallowed down a jab of panic. “What do I do?”

His lips moved again, and this time she caught the syllables as they fell.

_Jaskier._

She wouldn’t hesitate again. She snatched up the blanket from her bed, wrapped it around her shoulders like a shawl, and hurried out into the hallway. Only silence met her first knock on the door next to theirs, but when she knocked again, she heard stumbling footsteps come toward her. The door opened a crack, and a bleary blue eye squinted out at her. A moment later, it widened in recognition, and Jaskier pulled the door open with one hand. He wore a loose pair of trousers and fumbled with his other hand to grab a shirt from the floor and pull it over his head.

“What is it?” he asked as he settled it over his shoulders. “Are you all right?”

“Geralt seems worse,” she told him. “And… he said your name.”

His brows dipped low before he seemed to smooth them out with a conscious effort and smile. “Well, I suppose I better find out what he wants then.” He stepped back from the door, waving her inside. “Why don’t you relax in here for a bit? I’ve even got a few books in my pack.”

Ciri’s eyes roamed as she entered the room, taking in the clothes strewn across a chair and the lute case tucked neatly in the corner. The room was the mirror image of theirs, except for a desk covered in papers in the place of one of the beds. She sat on the very edge of the one bed’s mattress and watched the low flames dance in the fireplace as Jaskier crouched on the floor and dug in his pack.

“Ah,” he said with a note of triumph. “Here we are.”

He turned to her and held up a book in each hand: one slim and bound in fresh blue cloth with gilded lettering, the other thick and bound in black leather that was cracked with age.

“Poetry or monsters?” Jaskier asked.

“Monsters please.”

Jaskier pretended to scoff in indignant offense, but his lips curled up as he handed her the black book. He stood and winced as his knees loudly protested the movement, but he moved quickly to the door.

“Back in a moment,” he promised her, and then he disappeared into the hallway, closing the door behind him.

Ciri shifted deeper into the bed, resting her back against the wall to its side rather than the pillow at its head. The book smelled strongly of musty paper, but beneath it was another scent, tauntingly familiar. She held the book to her nose and closed her eyes as she tried to place it. Something in Jaskier’s pack must have rubbed against the cover, something like a perfume or…

Hair oil, she realized. The book smelled like Eist’s hair oil.

The scent wasn’t exactly the same, but it was near enough that she lowered the book to her lap as if it were a woodland creature that she wasn’t sure if she wanted to snuggle up to or shoo away from her. She was grateful when muffled voices from the other side of the wall distracted her.

She could hear Jaskier saying Geralt’s name, and when she turned her ear to the wall, he sounded as clear as if she were in the room with them.

A soft groan answered, and Jasker sighed. “What have you done to yourself this time?”

Geralt mumbled something that Ciri couldn’t make out, but Jaskier responded with a curse that sounded alarmed and heartfelt.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he repeated, and Ciri’s heart began to pound in her chest. “Geralt, we need to-”

“It’s fine.”

“It is _not_ bloody fine, you self-sacrificing-”

“The toxins have been neutralized.” Geralt raised his voice to speak over Jaskier, but it still sounded weary. “Only the bite is left. It was healing, but then this damn rain started.”

Ciri held her breath and only released it when she heard Jaskier reply in a calmer tone.

“Has it festered?”

“I don’t know.” She heard the bed frame creak as Geralt shifted. “I didn’t want to look at it while Ciri was there. I didn’t want to scare her,” he added softly.

Ciri didn’t know which surprised her more: Geralt’s open use of her real name or the gentle way he spoke it. She couldn’t remember if he’d ever said it out loud since they’d met, but she was sure she’d never heard it sound like that.

Jaskier’s sigh was more than loud enough to be heard through the wall. “That is both very sweet and very stupid.” 

As a minute ticked by, the two men didn’t speak; the only sounds Ciri could make out were more creaks from the bed and quiet shuffling. When Jaskier spoke again, his voice was somber.

“I’ll have to drain this.”

If Geralt responded, it wasn’t in words. She heard the sound of the stool being pulled along the wood floor, and then silence fell again until Ciri heard a low grunt of discomfort. Agonizing seconds passed, and she winced when Geralt said Jaskier’s name in a voice tight with pain.

“Almost done,” Jaskier soothed. “Just a moment more.”

Ciri curled her fingers in her hair and held the locks tight until Jaskier murmured, “There. Finished.”

After more shuffling, he continued, “Cirilla says you ran out of potions--also very stupid, by the way--but do you have any salve left?”

“In my pack.” 

Geralt sounded exhausted, and she knew he’d have hidden it if he thought she was listening. When Jaskier began humming to himself, she thought Geralt must have fallen asleep until he spoke softly over the tune.

“I’m sorry.”

“One night of disrupted sleep won’t kill me,” Jaskier replied with a breezy air.

“I didn’t mean-”

“I know what you meant.” Jaskier sighed again. “I usually do, you know. You aren’t as inscrutable as you like to think.”

Ciri bit her lip, silently urging Geralt to speak again, to say more. She couldn’t help but feel that if Geralt had just talked to her, he wouldn’t have become sick in the first place, and if he would just talk to Jaskier, maybe they could sort out whatever issue was making them both sound so resigned.

“Where are you headed?” he finally asked.

“Lettenhove.”

“You’re going home?”

“For a bit. I may be the prodigal son, but I do visit. I did so frequently over the years when we parted ways.”

“I didn’t know.”

“You didn’t ask.”

Even barely knowing the two men beyond the wall, Ciri could hear the decades of history lurking behind the scant words. She heard Jaskier admonish Geralt to get some rest and then footsteps headed toward the door, and she could feel that same sense of regret rising up like a fog.

“You could cross with us into Redania.”

Jaskier’s footsteps paused when Geralt spoke, and Ciri held her breath again. The words were the kind of invitation extended all over the Continent every day--traveling in numbers was safer, easier--but she couldn’t help but feel that they meant more than that between Geralt and Jaskier. 

“Let me sleep on it,” Jaskier murmured, and then his footsteps resumed.

Moments later, he had closed the door to the other room and opened the door to his own. Ciri didn’t think to move away from the wall until he raised an eyebrow at her. She felt her cheeks flush as she offered him a sheepish smile.

Jaskier’s lips curled up in return. “Heard all that, did you?”

She nodded, and Jaskier shook his head as he slumped into the chair by the desk.

“Will you come with us?” she couldn’t help asking.

“I’m not sure yet.”

“Why?”

“Well,” Jaskier said slowly, combing his fingers through his hair, “I find myself at something of a crossroads in my life. I haven’t decided yet which path is the best one for me to choose.”

Ciri rested her chin on her bent knees. “You’re lucky. I’ve never had a choice in my path. I was born to a crown, and now I’m bound by destiny.”

She was used to people telling her that she should count her blessings or that she was too young to know how long a life could be and how many twists and turns it could take. Jaskier simply nodded, as if she had stated a fact he wouldn’t dispute.

“What would you choose if you could?” he asked.

At first she thought it was the wavering firelight that blurred the lines of his face. Then she realized her lip was trembling. She sucked in a deep breath to try and stem her tears--what use was crying, after all?--but her voice snagged on the knot in her belly and the lump in her throat.

“I’d choose to go home,” she choked.

To her mortification, the tears spilled over, the runoff from the snows of her misery. She buried her face in her knees and gasped for breath as the sobs tumbled from her lips. When she felt the mattress dip beside her, her pride wanted her to turn away. But Jaskier’s arms were warm and strong around her shoulders, and the smell that was almost Eist drew her to his chest. He didn’t shush her or tell her it would be all right; he simply held her, rocking slightly and stroking his hand through her hair, cheek leaned against the crown of her head.

When she heard the door creak open, she tried again to quiet her pain, and this time she mostly succeeded. She forced deeper breaths into her lungs and turned her face further into Jaskier’s damp shirt as Geralt settled on her other side. He laid a hand on her back, and for the first time, the weight of it, the heat of it wasn’t just a shield against danger; it felt like a tether in this new mad reality she’d fallen into. Jaskier began to hum softly, a Cintran lullaby, and more tears fell from her eyes, but they felt cleaner, as if some of the debris of grief had cleared with the flood and now the stream ran clear.

When the stream finally ran dry, Jaskier’s hands on her shoulders nudged her to sit back, and he smiled at her as he swept the tears from her cheeks with his knuckles. His eyes lifted over her head, and she knew his gaze held Geralt’s. She recognized the look from her grandparents, from all those moments when their years together let them speak without words.

When Jaskier spoke aloud, he only said, “I think we could all use some sleep.”

Geralt hummed behind her, and she let him guide her to stand with the hand on her back. She wrapped a tentative arm around him in return, offering silent support to his limping steps. He paused alongside her as she stopped at the threshold and looked back over her shoulder. Jaskier sat slumped with his elbows on his knees and his hands dangling between, but when he felt her gaze, he straightened.

“Thank you, Jaskier,” she murmured.

He offered her a smile and a slight seated bow. “It was my pleasure, princess.”

She started forward again, but Geralt hesitated. She glanced up at him. He and Jaskier were gazing at each other again, and she saw the muscles in Geralt’s throat bob when he swallowed before speaking.

“I’m grateful you were here,” he said. “I’m grateful for your help and your company.”

Jaskier stared back at him, brow furrowed. But then he closed his eyes and shook his head, and the corners of his lips curled up. When he opened his eyes, he gazed at Geralt for a moment longer.

“You’re welcome.”

After shifting his weight, Geralt nodded once, and then he reached to close the door to Jaskier’s room. Even once the door was shut, he lingered, golden eyes on the dark wood. Ciri nudged him with her shoulder, and he blinked down at her as if he’d forgotten she was there. Then his expression softened, and his hand slid up her back to tug lightly at a strand of her hair. She smiled, and they walked back to their room with their arms around each other.

The next morning dawned bright and clear, and Geralt resumed his regular habit of being awake, dressed, and packed before Ciri had so much as cracked an eye. As she sat up with a groan, he tossed her now-dry clothes at her.

“Get dressed and then we’ll get breakfast.”

She trudged to the screened-in corner, dragging her feet with every step, but instead of urging her to hurry, Geralt just chuckled behind her. The sound made her smile, and she hoped it meant that he was feeling better. When she was dressed, they headed out to the hallway, and although Geralt’s steps were still a bit stiff, his limp had improved noticeably. He glanced at the closed door to Jaskier’s room as they passed, but he didn’t stop to knock.

The innkeeper smiled and fussed them into a corner booth and then disappeared into the kitchen. She came back with two plates laden with toasted bread, eggs, and sausage, and they both dug in with relish. Sneaking glances at Geralt as they ate, she concluded that his color was definitely better.

He caught her on one peek and raised an eyebrow. “I’m fine,” he told her.

“I know,” she replied with a smile.

He shook his head, but then his gaze drifted over her shoulder, and he straightened in his seat. Ciri glanced back and grinned widely when she saw Jaskier heading toward them.

“Morning, all! The sun has finally decided to grace us with his radiant presence, thank the gods.”

“And you’re out of bed before he reaches his zenith,” Geralt noted. “Unusual.”

Jaskier scoffed. “Don’t believe a word he says,” he told Ciri. “I am an exemplar of sober and responsible living.”

Geralt snorted, and Ciri giggled. The return of the sun and Jaskier’s presence seemed linked somehow, like they conspired together to make the world a brighter place than it had been yesterday.

“I even nipped out to the apothecary,” Jaskier continued. He pulled a parcel wrapped in waxed paper and tied with twine from the bag slung over his shoulder and handed it to Geralt. “Clean bandages and some ingredients you’re out of. It’s not everything you need, but it should get you started toward restocking.”

Looking down at the package in his hands, Geralt’s mild good humor faded back behind his usual stoic facade, a cloud that dimmed the hopeful light of morning. Ciri felt her own smile slipping when he looked up at Jaskier with somber eyes.

“You’re not coming with us.”

Ciri turned her gaze to Jaskier, desperate for his denial, but his muted smile was for Geralt, soft and a little sad. “Not just yet.”

“But why?” Ciri demanded. It felt like a chill had settled across the room just when she’d started enjoying the warmth. 

Blue eyes met hers, and Eist’s ghost haunted her thoughts again; Jaskier saw her with the same tenderness but also the same expectation that she was mature enough for the hard truths of their world.

“I need to peer down a few of those paths we talked about last night.”

Geralt watched her with furrowed brow, head tiled in confusion, but Ciri sighed and nodded to Jaskier. “But we’ll meet again?”

He smiled. “Of that I have no doubt. In fact…” He dug back through his bag, pulled out the black book of monsters, and placed it on the table beside her. “I thought you might hold onto this for me since I damn near have the thing memorized. But,” he warned her with a tap to the cover, “I expect it back in the exact condition it was lent. It was a gift from a friend, after all, and is quite dear to me.”

She glanced toward Geralt. Since they’d met, she’d half-wondered if the stories about Witchers having no feelings were true. Seeing the way he looked at Jaskier in that moment--the mix of disappointment and gladness, fondness and worry--removed any last doubt from her mind.

“Be careful on the roads,” he said.

Jaskier nodded. “And you.” He hiked his bag higher on his shoulder and affected a beaming grin. “Well, I’m off! Fiona, it was a delight to make your acquaintance at last. Please help Roach keep Geralt in line. He’s quite a handful. Or hoof-ful, as it were.”

After flashing Geralt half a fond smile of his own, Jaskier began to back toward the bar with an elaborate bow. He turned on his heel and captured the hand of the innkeeper as she wiped the counter.

“Myrah, my darling, a pleasure as always. I will sing the praises of your stew in the highest halls of the Continent.”

When he brushed his lips across her wrist, she blushed and flapped her rag at him. “Off with you now. My kegs are empty and half the town will be abed ’til noon after last night.”

“Your kegs are empty, but your purse is full. You’re welcome,” he added with a wink.

She shooed him again, and he dodged the rag with a laugh before hurrying toward the door. He turned on the threshold and sent one last wave to Geralt and Ciri before stepping out into the bright light of morning.

Geralt’s eyes never left him until the inn door swung shut, and he was well and truly gone. Ciri went back to her breakfast with less enthusiasm than before, and she noticed Geralt didn’t take another bite, just sat back in the booth, arms crossed, gaze fixed to the book on the table. When Ciri was done with her meal, he nodded to the stairs, and they returned to their room to finish packing in silence.

Their mutual deflated air lasted as they left their room, though Ciri smiled at the kind innkeeper when she said they were welcome to stay with her again anytime. Once outside, though, in the warm and cheery sunlight, Ciri breathed in a deep lungful of the rain-freshened air and felt her steps lighten. From the corner of her eye, she watched Geralt’s gait, and his straight back and even stride set another weight of worry floating off her shoulders. He caught her looking and gave her a small nod.

“All right?” he asked in that quiet way of his, and in those two words, she heard the promises he made each day, not just for her safety but for her care.

“I’m adding that phrase to the list,” she told him.

When he raised an eyebrow, she only laughed and skipped ahead to the stable where Roach waited.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
